There it is!
Vague memories of a night
at a Brand New show,
when the truth hit as hard
as the ***** and the music.

I'm only good for the people
I love, and that love me,
when things get to the point
that crisis appears.

I can dance Irish jigs in the street,
but only when I'm drunk,
I can spit in the face of people
much bigger and angrier than me,
but only when I'm drunk,
I can live how I believe I should,
but only when I mix the right amount
of alcohol and/or other things,
and only for that night.

The rest of the time I am
a slave to memories and
intrusive thoughts, states
of agitation based on a
chemical and experiencial
**** up in my head.

When you need me to
pull you out of a crack house,
or be fierce enough to keep
you from shooting up one more time,
I'll be there of course.

But happiness and bliss,
when everything is going
exactly the way it should...
I'm bad at that.

The odd thing is that the words never stop.
Doesn't matter what time, nor how sober
I may or may not be.
I'll be at work in the middle of fixing
some poor fools situation he got himself
into by not paying attention to what buttons
he was randomly pushing and then all of
a sudden I can't really follow the rant he's
going on about windows 8 and Fannie Mae
/Freddie Mac and the whole corrupt housing industry.

Instead of paying attention to my customer there
are lines of Rumi or le Marquis de Sade or
(God Almighty) Dr. Gonzo pushing themselves
into my very frayed mind and demanding a voice.

It's at that point I decide that I have a need,
a yearning that I'm not able to fill,
subsequently I go home and drink
and write because it's all I've got keeping
me from going completely insane and
doing something ridiculous like selling
all I own and getting the hell out.

It's times like this that bring it all into
perspective for me I guess,
that moment I stop writing for the reader
and start writing for me.

Sure I'll be explicit, I'll throw my soul
onto a computer and worry about
what people think whenever I wake
up in the plastic morning.

I'm at the point now, where I'd
accept love from anybody,
my ideas (that weren't really mine)
about *** and morality, and the
strange connection between them,
really don't matter anymore.

If you want to touch me, do so.
If you want me to touch you, move my
tired hands to yours.

Amidst tangled lips and intertwined
hips, sweat and soul and heart
it's nothing but union I'm looking for.

So what face shall I construct to wear when the sun comes up?
Who shall I be on the morrow, what role is it they want me to play?
I guess it depends on the company I expect to find myself in.
It's a Tuesday and I have work so I can get away with being hungover but not drunk, slightly grungy but not full punk, though as the evening progresses and shifts change I can afford to let my hair down, so long as I don't lose it and curse at the callers or slur too hard.

I'll wind up at the local bar after and not really be concerned about my state of being since it's men's night and there's nobody there looking for a cat like me, not at that hour on a sandy road in *** **** Florida.

That's one of the things I still haven't been able to really understand about this place...basically there are young through highschool kids, then community college not yet oldenough to go out drinking, and then nothing in between till thirty year old professionals who are more cynical than the old retired people from up North who came here to die. Where do I fit in all this?

None of the above. The last woman who had feelings for me was a 27 year old single mom who bore my 29 year old co worker's child. The last girl I almost slept with was a 19 year old ****** I met at a 7-11. My best friend is my 20 year old cousin. I got to work and bars during the week and feel like a child, provide alcohol to my cousin and his friends on the weekend and feel like this rickety old man telling stories about how ****** up I used to get while falling asleep after one hit.

Make any sense? I hope not.

Right on the cusp of sleep,
warm and cozy and drifting off....

Haha, not happening

I'm an American
Caucasian
heterosexual male
and make more than
twenty grand a year.

Therefore,
according to pretty
much everybody that isn't
republican (God help you)
everything wrong in the world
is my fault.

So sleep is a luxury.

Let's proceed down the
strangely hate filled
and guilt slinging
reactionary list.

American: invades whoever
we want for whatever we want,
whenever we want.
We'll bomb you back to the
stone age and then station
fifty thousand ***** dudes
with guns in your capitol
and force feed you Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Caucasian: I may say I hate
racism in all it's disgusting
forms, but in reality I'm
just lying because I want to
buy your sister and **** her
because I have daddy issues
and think ****** was a God.

A dude who likes chicks:
I only pretend to be a gentleman
and sensitive because it gets
me in between hott hipster girls
thighs, but actually ****** is
just another commodity to be sold.

I make over minimum wage:
I don't really have to scrape to
pay my bills, I just live above my
means with money I didn't actually
make, at a job I don't deserve.

The point being that I can't sleep
because I can't decide whether
to believe what I'm told,
what I've seen,
or what I actually think is true.

Oh, btw I am all of the aforementioned,
but I've also never shot an unarmed
Muslim kid, or ***** a drunk co-ed
because she really wanted it, or bought
another human being.

In point of fact, people like me
are kinda despised by everybody,
since the white supremacist bigot
bible thumpers accuse us of betraying
them and their true calling,
and everybody else thinks we're just
going with the flow of progressivism
because we don't have the ***** to
be open about wanting to buy young
Thai girls and force them into a brothel.

Why can't I sleep?
Too much noise.

Hate in fact breeds one thing...more Hate.

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud that you can see
All hearts your captives, yours yet free;
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the love-sick air;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty’s gone.

Pulled out an old journal of mine,
on a whim to read empty words.
I found her pages inserted in the
front of my ten year old book.

She gave me her soul on paper,
and I was too much of a fool to read
the love that she wanted to give.

Grab a guy's **** and he'll do whatever you want.

Put your **** in a ****** the right way and you own her.

Power equals ****** potency.

****** potency equals power.

Behind every powerful man stands a woman.

And behind every powerful woman stands a well hung man.

The problem that arises from this outlook is that love is nonexistent.

Love dies when all we need is a good ****.

That moment when we decide that who we are as individuals is our
own  choice.....that moment breaks what we were given.